


The Failings of the Weak

by tiltedsyllogism



Series: Word Made Flesh [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Hand Jobs, I breezed past There and left it way behind me, I mean I went there so hard, I went there you guys, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pauline Letters, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Roman Catholicism, Scripture References, Sherlock's voice is still sex, Shir HaShirim | Song of Songs, Voice Kink, Weddings, and here we are, except not, interdenominational angst, lectio divina, really really not, the gospel of John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5597785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s left hand inched further toward John’s crotch. John dared not move his right arm—the last thing he needed to do was to jostle about and draw the attention of anyone in the nearby pews—but he slid his left hand over and clamped it down firmly over the beautiful long fingers that were just beginning to brush the bulge in his trousers.</p><p>“Love is <i>patient</i>, Sherlock,” John hissed.</p><p>“How fortunate for me that it also bears all things,” Sherlock returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Failings of the Weak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



> This story benefited HUGELY from the beta efforts of both [doctornerdington](http://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington) and [beyonces_fiancee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/pseuds/PorcupineGirl). Thanks too to [porcupinegirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/pseuds/PorcupineGirl) for a readthrough near the end.
> 
> This story should work just fine as a stand-alone, but is intended as the third installment in a series that begins with [Teachers to Suit Their Own Passions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3642300) and is followed by [Hunger for an Earthly Banquet.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3835762)

John had had at least two great-aunts named Clarice. But they were both dead, so he was pretty sure neither one of them was responsible for the gilt-framed envelope on the front table. Besides, Sherlock’s name was first on the envelope. John thought it might be an invitation of some kind.

John sorted through the rest of the pile, tossed the adverts and the scarier-looking pieces of fan mail in the little dustbin, and carried the rest up the stairs.

“More reports of blackmail shenanigans from your admirer in Manchester,” he said, as he set the post on the table and went for tea.

“So soon?” Sherlock did not look up from his laptop.

“I think that’s the handwriting. Just guessing, really. I’m not you, of course.” John filled the kettle and switched it on. “Who’s Clarice?”

Now Sherlock did look up, brow crinkling in a frown. “D’you mean my cousin Clarice?”

John shrugged. “Dunno. We’ve got a bit of mail from a Clarice.”

“Oh. Probably, then.” Sherlock’s flicker of interest had clearly subsided. So much for learning anything the normal way.

“Only you’ve never mentioned her,” John said, coming to stand next to Sherlock.

“Why should I? We haven’t spoken in at least a dozen years.”

“No bad blood, I hope?”

“Not particularly. She’s dull, and a bit of an idiot.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound too bad, since that’s basically what you think of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re not dull.”

That was about as good as the compliments got, around Sherlock, so John slipped an arm around his shoulders and gave a little squeeze.

“Can I open it?” he asked.

“Whatever you like, I don’t care.”

So John fixed his tea and then sat down opposite Sherlock and tore open the envelope.

“Hey, it’s in Cornwall!”

Sherlock said nothing, but began typing rapidly.

“In August,” said John. “That’ll be lovely.”

“What do you care if it’s lovely?” Sherlock asked, fingers still clicking.

“You should care too,” said John, pointing at him with the invitation.

Sherlock met his eyes, and his hands came down flat on the table. “No.”

“Yes,” John replied, just as firmly. “D’you think I’m going to pass up a trip to Cornwall?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Don’t go thinking you’re going to enjoy it. It will be some insufferably twee seaside mansion. There will be tourists.”

“At the wedding?”

“At wherever the wedding is. They’ll choose some public attraction that the National Trust rents out for exorbitant fees, all for the privilege of having holiday-makers peer through the windows at you. Clarice was always like that.”  
John burst out laughing, earning him a vicious glare. 

“Sorry,” he said, when he’d got his breath back. “It does sound dreadful.”

“Then why—”

“We’ll have a holiday of our own. Look, it’s the middle of August. Cornwall will be lovely. Tourists, yeah, but It’s not like London won’t be overrun.” John stood up and stepped behind Sherlock’s chair and began to run his hands on up and down Sherlock’s shoulders and arms. “The wedding will be one day,” he murmured, “at the _most_. After that we’ll take a week, go to the sea, explore the cliff caves a bit…” John felt Sherlock’s muscles relax as he leaned back into John’s hands. “And make your mum happy while we’re at it.” John shook his head, breath stuttering on the dregs of his earlier laughter. “Cousin Clarice.”

Sherlock turned to look up at John, suspicious. “What?”

“It’s just—quite a family you’ve got, is all. Only you would have a cousin your own age named Clarice.”

Sherlock frowned, as if perplexed by these new frontiers of John’s dimness. “She’s got seven cousins, John.”

John sighed and gave Sherlock’s shoulder a final pat. “Okay, Sherlock. Okay.”

——

John’s suit jacket still pinched uncomfortably under the arms, even though he had had almost four months to get it altered. He stripped it off as soon as he and Sherlock were seated in one of the hard wooden pews. None of this was turning out in quite the way that John had hoped. The jacket was even more uncomfortable than he remembered, Sherlock had worked himself into a towering dudgeon on the drive down, and cousin Clarice was marrying a Catholic, so that instead of a twee seaside villa, they were in some sort of historic church about as far inland as it was possible to be. The church was dedicated to some martyr, which didn’t strike John as particularly festive. But he was here with Sherlock, so who was he to judge, really.

They had arrived about ten minutes early, which meant that Sherlock had the time to work up a head of extravagant, prodigious boredom, slouching and sighing with such apocalyptic vigor that John felt as though he had to pretend that he wasn’t feeling more or less the same way. John had learned a long time ago that no good ever came of trying to prod Sherlock into better public behavior; all he could do was to try to be extra proper to balance him out. So John sat very straight, hands folded neatly in front of him, and tried not to goggle too obviously at the colorful plaster sculptures all over the walls.

At last the string quartet shifted into the processional, and everyone in the congregation arranged themselves into polite silence; everyone other than Sherlock, who slouched lower and glowered at the voluminously gauzy hat in the pew ahead of him.

John dutifully stood when everyone else did, leaving Sherlock in an undisturbed sulk beside him, and mumbled along as everyone sang, and managed not to be the last person to sit down. Sherlock sighed loudly as the priest started to speak, and John leaned forward in a posture of polite attention, projecting good manners as hard as he could. John felt mildly sympathetic—to be fair to Sherlock, the opening greeting seemed very, very long—until Sherlock leaned over and whispered, “This was a terrible idea.”

“Hush,” John hissed, because he didn’t know how Catholics would feel about “shut up.”

“I didn’t even want to—”

John reached out and gripped Sherlock’s knee, hard enough to hurt. “Later,” he said quietly. “We’ll take it up later, all right? We’re here, and we’re staying, and you _will_ behave yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed mutinously, but he snapped his mouth shut and sat back in the pew. Slowly, John released Sherlock’s knee, eyes firmly on the floor. If anyone had overheard and was staring, he didn’t want to know.

John settled in to wait out the service. Sherlock was quietly radiating misery beside him, but compared to the time bomb he had been a moment ago, John found this oddly comforting. He draped his arm along the back of the pew and began gently rubbing at Sherlock’s neck. It was going to be fine. He let his mind drift ahead to the B&B he had booked for the following evening in Padstow.

And then, suddenly, John snapped back to the present. What had happened? A girl in a bridesmaid’s dress had taken the podium and was doing some sort of reading. Sherlock sat unmoving beside him, but had somehow changed key, alert and intent and… what? John sat straighter, fingers still on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and scanned the room. From the front of the room, the bridesmaid’s voice came in slow, monotonous intonation:

_“...my lover, here he comes. Springing across the mountains...”_

Oh. _Oh._

John had forgotten about scripture readings at weddings. Or rather, he had failed to calculate the probability that the wedding readings would include any of the stuff he and Sherlock had, well, read together. Sherlock had also apparently forgotten. He clearly remembered now.

His senses now on high alert, John had a few seconds to brace himself before Sherlock’s left hand settled lightly, so lightly, on his thigh. John stared straight ahead, jaw tight. He knew that Sherlock could read the admonition in the set of his features, and John felt a brief pinch of relief as Sherlock removed his hand. But then he set it down again, and drew his fingertips in soft circles over the top of John’s thigh. John shivered, and a shadow of mischievous humor crept under the stony set of Sherlock’s features.

 _“My lover is like a gazelle,”_ droned the bridesmaid, at crawling speed. She was quite a terrible reader. There was no way anybody could possibly find it erotic to listen to her read, even if — like John — that person had very specific memories of that passage from other circumstances. On the other hand, that didn’t matter very much if a person — also like John — was being caressed, in a decidedly sexual way, by the other person from those other circumstances, in public, _in church_ , where anyone might see. Which would be completely humiliating, and not the sort of thing that should be making him hot all over. 

Okay, all of this was getting out of control. John cut his eyes over to Sherlock and mouthed _no._ But Sherlock’s eyes were forward, airily ignoring John’s face, as he slid his hand further up John’s thigh, scratching gently against the grain of the trouser fabric and drawing a thrill from John’s skin.

John continued to glare forward, face reddening, breath short, trembling with the effort of holding still. But it was war, now. Even if they weren’t surrounded by strangers and family on all sides, even if they weren’t in a bloody church, John had made his point. He would not compromise. He tried to focus on the bridesmaid and her terrible reading.

_”Here he stands behind our wall,_  
gazing through the windows,  
peering through…” 

Okay, no, that was not going to be helpful. John stared at the grain of the wood in the pew in front of him. Sherlock dropped his head back slightly, so that his silky curls brushed against John’s thumb, just as his own thumb stroked a gentle line along the inseam of John’s trousers. _Oh God._ John whimpered slightly. A woman in the next pew shot them a brief glance, and John’s cock jumped. Sherlock’s smile was smug.

Well. So much for the principle of the thing. But they were still in church. John couldn’t let it continue.

Sherlock’s left hand inched further toward John’s crotch. John dared not move his right arm—the last thing he needed to do was to jostle about and draw the attention of anyone in the nearby pews—but he slid his left hand over and clamped it down firmly over the beautiful long fingers that were just beginning to brush the bulge in his trousers.

“Love is _patient_ , Sherlock,” John hissed.

“How fortunate for me that it also bears all things,” Sherlock returned. His voice was a low rumble, almost inaudible, and John was keenly conscious of how loud his fidgeting was getting.

Was that really what came next? But _oh_ —John lost track of that thought as Sherlock’s hand settled, huge and warm, over his cock. He was already half-erect, plucked to trembling sensitivity by the light touches of that beautiful hand.

_“O my dove in the clefts of the rock…”_

John was in serious trouble now. As Sherlock moved his fingertips gently, caressing John as he might caress the strings of his violin, John felt blood rushing to his cock. Just a few touches, a few soft brushes, and he was fiercely, achingly hard.

_”Let me see you, let me hear your voice…”_

John sensed a darker note underlying the bridesmaid’s nasal drone, and John flicked a glance to the side and saw that Sherlock was reciting along with the passage in a velvet undertone.

 _“For your voice is sweet,”_ said the bridesmaid — said Sherlock next to him, his voice rich and dark and low — _”and you are lovely.”_

John swallowed and stared again at the pew in front of him. He was beginning to feel a bit dizzy, actually. He gasped, realizing all at once that he had been forgetting to breathe, and the woman glanced back over. _Oh God, what if she…_ His cock twitched traitorously at the thought. He gave the woman a stiff smile, but she had already looked away, thank Christ. John pressed his lips together and tried again to push Sherlock’s hand away. Speaking of Christ.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “We have to stop.”

But Sherlock continued to move his hand, John’s hand riding atop as he ran his fingers up and down the length of John’s cock. “We’re almost done,” he hummed back, serenely.

Oh God, it was true, wasn’t it. John was nearly shaking with the effort to hold back his orgasm, clenching every muscle he could think of, anything to distract from the burgeoning thrum of pleasurable pressure in his groin. 

_“For stern as death is love, relentless as the nether world is devotion…”_

John gritted his teeth, bit his tongue….

_“...Its flames are a blazing fire.”_

...but it was too late, the tightness was building all through him, he was almost…

“All rise for the word of the Lord.”

Before the priest’s words had registered, John felt a shuffling in the pews as the congregation rose to standing. Beside him, Sherlock unfolded smoothly to his feet, the graceful prat. John snatched up the jacket from the pew beside him and held it in front of him. He stood, knotted up with chagrin, while beside him, Sherlock stood with hands folded behind his back, face arranged in pious attention. John drew slow, steady breaths and gathered his jacket in more tightly, hoping he could will away his stiffy before they had to go through the receiving line.

—-

Sherlock’s normal-person routine and ability to play cool did come in handy, sometimes; if any of the other guests noticed John’s red face and hunched posture, Sherlock left them no time to dwell on it, chattering away about the beautiful service and how nice it was to see old friends again. John shook hands with Sherlock’s father, accepted a kiss on the cheek from his mum, and then pleaded leg pain and fled. Weaving his way through the crowded foyer, packed with wedding guests and servers bearing trays of appetizers, he slipped into the still-quiet reception hall, its tables all heavily draped, thank God. He found their table, chose a seat which put his back to the wall and sank down, weak with relief to have his lower half safely concealed.

Sherlock joined him ten minutes later, bearing a glass of red wine for each of them, as the first guests were filtering into the hall.

“Thanks,” said John, meaning a lot of things.

“My cousin Lillian finds it very sweet that you cry at weddings,” said Sherlock, taking the seat on John’s left side.

John laughed dryly. “Is that what she thought? We got lucky, I suppose.” He winced and wiped his face with his hands. “God, I can’t believe you almost brought me off during a wedding. _In a church._ ”

“Yes, it’s disappointing.” Sherlock leaned back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, what was it that made the scenario most arousing for you?”

John dropped his hands and frowned at him. “I’m pretty sure it was the part where you had your hand on my cock. Seriously, Sherlock, you think I enjoyed being, er…. _that_ in, in there?”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “Didn’t you?”

“It’s not exactly in _good taste_ , is it?”

“I thought that being in poor taste was part of the thrill.”

“No, I…” John swallowed. “Well, all right, yes, Obviously I liked it. But not, not _because_ ….” John trailed off and sighed. Damnit, why was Sherlock always right about these things? John stared down at the tablecloth like it might tell him something. “Okay, yes, maybe a bit of it was… that.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Well,” he said, his voice gone dark and rich like wine, “now, we’re here. And I think—oh, hello!” Sherlock’s tone banked suddenly from seductive to slightly manic, and John looked up to see an older couple sitting down across the table from them.

The woman smiled at them. “Is that William? I haven’t seen you in twenty years, I don’t think!” She smiled at Sherlock, who seemed to have used up the last gasp of his civility on “hello” and was now tipped back, staring at the ceiling. She looked over at John, confused. “And this is, ah, a friend of yours?”

John gathered up his jacket in front of him again and reached across the table to shake hands. “Yeah, John Watson, hi.” The woman shook his hand, but looked as if his explanation had only made things worse.

“We’re William’s second cousins once removed,” said the man, returning the shake vigorously. “I’m Gerald, and this is Denise.” He winked at John. “I read your blog.”

“Ah,” John replied. “Good. Thanks.”

That seemed to be the end of the polite conversation, so John settled himself back safely behind the tablecloth. A moment later another couple arrived, and John watched Denise make conversation with the new arrivals, one by one, until all twelve seats at their table were filled with people whom Sherlock seemed dead set on ignoring.

John introduced himself to Ted and Joyce, who had come in from Dorsetshire, and exchanged pleasantries with Ruth and Allan. All four of them seemed to be Clarice’s relatives on her father’s side. John smiled and asked after their families and their jobs, because Sherlock could say what he liked about John’s, er, preferences, but John was still the one who had to be socially presentable for the both of them. Everyone except Sherlock chatted pleasantly enough for about ten minutes, when Clarice and her new husband Albert came in, and everyone except Sherlock applauded as the pair waved and smiled.

“Handsome couple, aren’t they,” said Allan.

“Clarice looks very lovely,” said the woman sitting on Ruth’s other side, and then paused loudly. “So… ornate, though, that dress.”

“Well,” said Joyce. “A Catholic wedding.”

The first woman and her husband chuckled a bit, while Ruth stared at the table, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Her parents weren’t too keen, I imagine,” said the man. Joyce leaned forward, conspiratorial, but he continued, “Oh, I’ve not heard anything specific. But the Sigersons have roots in…”

“I’m sorry,” broke in Sherlock, quite loudly and in a tone that made clear that he wasn’t, “but I was at that service as well, and I _believe_ that we were just charged by the Apostle to welcome one another, as Christ welcomed each of us.” He stared around the table, prim and righteous, and the gossipers had the grace to look embarrassed. John bit his lip, already imagining what it would be like to tell Greg about this one. After a moment Sherlock slouched back, his arms folded, and smaller, more subdued conversations resumed.

“What was that for?” John whispered, grinning.

“A dose of their own medicine, John,” murmured Sherlock. “Anyone small-minded enough to think being C of E is something to be proud of deserves it. Besides,” he added, “you weren’t paying attention for that part of the service, and I think…” he brushed his hand along John’s thigh, “it would benefit you.”

And just like that, like a bloody light switch, John was hard again, Sherlock’s voice and Sherlock’s touch and… never mind what else. “Ah,” he gasped out, hoping he wasn’t turning red. A quick glance around the table told him that everyone else was studiously avoiding looking in their direction. He folded his arms tightly and slouched down in his seat. “Care to teach me?” he muttered.

Sherlock smiled, leaning slightly closer. “Let each of us,” he said, in a voice like black silk, “please our neighbor for the good.”

John wheezed out a laugh. “Christ, it really says that?”

“You should pay attention, John,” replied Sherlock serenely, as his hand wandered over John’s thigh. “You would know that Paul tells us we must please our neighbor for the good” — he paused on a long caress — “for building up.” He slid his hand down and took hold of John’s cock through his trousers. “For Christ did not please himself.”

John caught his breath. This was even worse than in church; they were surrounded by people who were looking at them.

“Nobody’s looking, John,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, as he continued his light teasing touches, then suddenly squeezed and gave him a single rough stroke.

John barely held back a loud gasp as his lower body seized. He swallowed and clenched his jaw, fighting for control of his face as Sherlock’s fingertips wandered back and forth across his crotch. A moment later he gave another hard stroke before returning to the gentle play of fingertips. This time John did gasp, and It was loud, God it was loud, any minute now one of their table-mates might turn around, but John didn’t—he could hardly keep a straight face, caught up in the exquisite agony of Sherlock’s gentle touches, punctuated by unexpected rough pulls. His head was full of pressure, and his cock was burning, but he had it under control this time, he could...

“Let go, John,” Sherlock whispered, as the play of his fingers increased.

“Not here,” John gritted out. “We can… we can go to the loo or something.”

“I have,” said Sherlock, and John almost asked “have what?” but then Sherlock went on, and oh no, he was reciting again: "...given them the glory you gave me.” He traced his fingers along John’s cock, and John choked. 

“So that they may be one,” Sherlock continued, “as we are one—” he dragged out the words, sliding his fingers in a ring along John’s cock “—I in them and you in me.” 

John came—violent, shaking, moaning out a low cry he couldn’t suppress. The sound of it was swallowed up in the swell of conversation — a quick glance told him that none of his table-mates had noticed, and relief broke across John’s mind, swirling and blending with all the other kinds of relief as he planted his palms flat on the table and sat, shaking, still coming, pulse after pulse, soaking his pants, probably staining his trousers too, Christ. He eased himself back in his chair, absorbing the pleasure of the last few jolts that surged through him. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” he muttered, still shaking.

“Only that last bit,” Sherlock returned. “Before that it was Paul, and the Song of Songs, of course.”

“Okay. Thanks, yeah, good. That’s… that’s good.” 

After a few more sweaty moments, John saw Ruth trying to catch his eye across the table. “You all right?” she asked, voice pitched to carry across the noisy table.

He waved in response. “Yeah, I’m—a bit hot in here, is all. I’m just going to go to the loo.” He eased himself to standing, careful to hold his jacket in front of him. Again. He would have to spend the rest of the wedding sitting down, after this.

“Better late than never,” put in Sherlock, smugly, beside him.

John checked to see that Ruth was no longer paying attention and dealt Sherlock a playful thump on the shoulder. “You’ll get yours, you know.”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “I expect no less. We’ve another full week in Cornwall, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> All scriptural references are taken from the canon-within-a-canon of standard readings that get used in the Catholic wedding liturgy. The referenced readings (which I am imagining are the ones that comprise cousin Clarice's actual wedding liturgy) are, in order:  
> * Song of Songs 2:8-10, 14, 16a; 8:6-7a  
> * Romans 15:1b-3a, 5-7, 13  
> * John 17:20-26
> 
> The title of the story is taken from the Pauline passage (though not from a part that Sherlock quotes. Not here, anyhow. Who knows what they got up to later?)
> 
> You would think I'd be beyond shame at this point, and yet I do feel a little bad about the implicit supersessionism of the way the text gets used here, what with the promise that begins in the Hebrew Scriptures being fulfilled in the New Covenant. but on the other hand, I think it's Sherlock who gets credit for John's orgasm, not Jesus.


End file.
